Page 2 of Air Affair

For what felt like an eternity, she stood completely still, listening for the slightest hint that she might not be alone. If she got caught sneaking out of the party, Father would lock her in her room and throw away the key until the wedding.

A tense moment passed.

Nothing.

She was imagining things. It must have been all the champagne.

Slipping in through the hangar’s barn door, which was slightly ajar, she stood still for a moment, letting her eyes adjust. The only light came from an office window with its shutters down at the opposite end of the hangar. Everything else was cloaked in darkness. Gathering her courage, she wound her way past the hulking shadows of six biplanes, until she found one with a ladder to the rear cockpit. In the meager light, she could see that the front cockpit was filled with sacks of mail.

The polished wood propeller of the JN-4 gleamed with a reflection of the light from the office. A “Jenny” they called it, fitting, given its feminine lines. Dual wings, held together with posts and a web of wires, cast complex shadows on the wall of the hangar. Just looking at it sent a thrill right down to her toes. Someday, she would fly one of these beautiful contraptions. She would find a way, no matter what her husband might think.

Walking around the wing, temptation overtook her, and she climbed the small ladder resting against the curving body of the plane and nestled into the rear cockpit straddling the rigid wooden control stick. Fortunately, no one was here to see how improper she looked with her gold satin dress bunched between her silk-stockinged legs.

Grasping the stick with both hands, she imagined what it would be like to wield this machine, soaring above the clouds, trembling, and vibrating with the roar of the powerful Hispano-Suiza engine. She longed to feel its thrust, pressing her back in her seat with inexorable force, the wind caressing her face, chasing away the sultry heat of the summer’s night.

Why did men get to have all the fun? This might be called a Jenny, but it was hard to imagine a more masculine invention than this aircraft. Surely the soft, skillful hands of a woman would best know how to tame such a beast. She inhaled deeply, smelling leather, oil, and the feral tang of the steel engine sleeping in the fuselage.

A quiet thrum of giddiness ran through her veins as she ran a finger lovingly down the instrument panel.

Yes, this was just what she needed to shake off the horror of the party. Closing her eyes, she was a bird in the sky, the whole world spread out before her. Weightless. Free.

Her reverie was interrupted by the unmistakable rasp of a match. Her eyes flew open, and her heart skipped a beat as an orange glow appeared in the darkness several yards away. The pungent aroma of a fine, Cuban cigar tickled her nose.

She froze.

“Well, hello, princess,” said a rich baritone, as fine and mellow as a caress. It was a voice made for radio. If only it wasn’t pronouncing her doom.

“To whom do I have the honor of speaking?” Rory asked, exaggerating her aristocratic mid-Atlantic lilt, pretending she wasn’t absolutely terrified. Could she brazen her way through this? It would be a disaster if this got back to her father. And who knew what this strange man’s intentions might be?

“Lieutenant Hank Hawley, at your service.” He gestured with his cigar as he sprawled on a rickety wood folding chair leaning against the wall of the hangar. How did she miss him in the shadows?

Standing slowly, he sauntered into a shaft of light, and she was free to take a long, appraising look. He was in white shirtsleeves, the fabric clinging to his muscular chest, leaving little to the imagination. The loose khaki pants of an army pilot’s uniform ballooned around his thighs then tucked into knee-high boots.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing powerful forearms. He had a tattoo she couldn’t make out on the arm holding the cigar. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and she could see a hint of hair just above the V of his neckline. In short, he looked like he stepped out of one of her dreams.

After all, how many times had she fantasized about being whisked away from her coddled life by a brave and dashing pilot? If she was alone in her bedroom, she might have imagined undoing the rest of his buttons, one by one, until she reached the waist of his pants. And then…

Oh God. She must have drunk too much champagne. Stiffening, she shook her head and sat up straight, attempting to clear her wayward thoughts. If she was going to get out of this, she needed her wits about her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his chocolaty voice soothing her as he put his hands up. “Frankly, I’m wondering whether this is real. Maybe I’m dreaming up the gorgeous angel that has landed in my cockpit.”

His brilliant brown eyes had a reckless, wild look to them, and a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He was clean-shaven, but the shadow of a day’s growth darkened his jaw.

“A dream. Yes, definitely a dream. Now go back to sleep and pretend you never saw me.”

Climbing out of the wooden fuselage, trying not to expose too much leg, she stepped down the ladder hurriedly. Her high heels crunched as she reached the gravel floor. She backed away from him, carefully keeping out of reach.

“Forgive my haste,” she said, “but I do believe I’ll be going.”

She turned and started walking briskly, trying not to wobble on the uneven ground. There was always a chance it would work. Then she had to go and trip.

“Now hold on a minute.” He clamped a hand strong as a vise around her arm and steadied her before she fell.

Damnit. She was caught.

“It’s not safe for a lady like you to wander around an empty racetrack in the dark. Tell me what you’re doing here, and I’ll take you back where you belong.”

He let her go slowly, making sure she was steady, then pulled a flashlight from his pocket and turned it on her. Frozen in place, she watched him take her in—the shimmering golden gown that hugged her curves and barely covered her knees; the dripping diamonds that flashed and sparked in the light; the blonde curls, tied back in a careful chignon. She looked every inch the tipsy socialite that she was, damn it all.